Further North
by Second Star On The Left
Summary: Jon Umber may be a good man, but he is not what Sansa wants in a husband, and she wonders how she is to cope with that. SansaSmalljon AU.


Sansa dreams of marrying south, into the summer and sunshine her mother's stories are full of, but those dreams are dashed on her thirteenth nameday by the arrival of the Lords Umber at Winterfell – all seven, Greatjon and Small, Crowfood and Whoresbane, and Lord Umber's three younger sons, too – and by the announcement that she is to marry not south, but further north, to Last Hearth.

It is her very worst nightmares made reality.

Robb is the only one who truly sees through her courtesies – oh, she smiles for Lord Jon Umber the younger, dances with him and, when he steps on her toes one time too many, makes some pretty jape about needing strong boots that makes him blush under his tawny-brown beard, agrees when he tells her to call him Smalljon and calls him Lord Jon and my lord anyways, and once she has bid him goodnight and Robb has offered to escort her to her rooms, she curls into her brother's arms and cries, because Robb is the only one who will not chide her for behaving poorly in this instance.

Jon Umber may be a good man, but he is not what Sansa wants in a husband, and she wonders how she is to cope with that.

* * *

Jeyne Poole tells Sansa how lucky she is, to have such a fine man to marry, and Sansa supposes that from Jeyne's perspective the Smalljon _is_ a fine man – he is massively tall, and broad through the shoulders and chest, with powerful arms and long legs, and he has a nice face, although Sansa would prefer he trim his beard, and he smiles readily and with the whole of his face.

She quite likes his eyes – he has kind eyes, dark and warm – but that is not enough, she thinks as she and Jeyne huddle in the gallery and watch Jon sparring with his brothers and Robb and Theon. He is huge compared to the other young men, so much so that even his own brothers seem tiny in comparison (although Torrhen, the next to him in age, is near as broad in the shoulders and looks comically disproportioned because he is almost the smallest of the four Umbers in height), and seems oddly conscious of it once he notices that Sansa and Jeyne are watching.

"He likes you," Jeyne says, sounding as though she half thinks it the most romantic thing in the world. "He could hardly remember his steps when you were dancing last night, but he had no such trouble when he and I danced."

"He was just nervous," Sansa dismisses her, folding her arms and leaning on the railing even though she knows Septa would tell her that such a position was not ladylike. She does not much feel like being ladylike today, because being ladylike has not done her any good – she does not care that Jeyne likes the look of the Smalljon, because Jeyne likes the look of any man who smiles at her, even Theon, does not care that Father has pointed out that Robb is set to marry in the North, that Arya probably will too.

Sansa thinks that it would be… Well, it would be _easier_ to bear this had she not had a taste of what has now been denied her, had she not seen all that she will now miss.

Of course, she had only seen the royal court in mourning for the King, the one Father was so close to, who fought a war for her lady aunt, but it had been enough – she had been so certain that Father would make a match for her in the south, so _certain._ He had certainly made enough noise to the Queen about Sansa being _unavailable –_ well, he hadn't really, but Sansa had overheard him speaking with Queen Cersei one afternoon when she'd run back from the gardens to fetch Mother's book. They'd said something about Lord Stannis, the King's brother who died not long after the King, and about Father's loyalty, and then the Queen had suggested Sansa for a wife for the prince who was to be king…

 _The prince liked me,_ Sansa thinks bitterly, looking down on her betrothed. _And had Father said yes, I might be Queen._

But then, she considers, watching as Jon swings gangly long-limbed Rogir, who is only Bran's age, up onto his shoulders and runs about the practice yard as their brothers chase them, Robb and Theon laughing and leaning back against the fence, Prince Joffrey – _King_ Joffrey – was cruel to his brother in a way Sansa still cannot comprehend. Prince Tommen is a sweet boy, also Bran's age, with a round little face and always carrying a kitten (one had climbed out of his pocket and into his uncle's lap during the funeral, and Sansa had only spared a thought to thank the gods that it was handsome Lord Renly and not stern Lord Stannis who had been sitting by Prince Tommen, because Lord Renly had slipped one arm around Tommen's shoulders and petted the kitten's head with his other hand to keep it quiet).

Sansa had been chasing Arya, trying to catch her up to bring her back for their baths only the night before they were due to leave, when she'd happened upon the princes. She'd assumed they were playing together, as Robb and Bran and Rickon often did, but then Prince Tommen had cried out in pain and-

Jon Umber tumbles to the ground under the weight of his three younger brothers, and Sansa bites her lip and wishes that Last Hearth were anywhere but further north.

* * *

"Your sister," Jon says to Robb, who looks almost enough like Sansa to be her twin – he has the same eyes and hair, at least, if not the same snow-pale skin and forced smile. Jon's fairly certain at this point that Robb Stark would be happier marrying him than Sansa Stark would. "She doesn't like me much, does she?"

It pains him so much to say it, because he's always considered himself fairly likeable, and he's not met many women who'd disagree, but he must know, must know if Sansa truly is against the idea of wedding him – it wounds his pride to say it, but gods be good he has no interest in wedding a woman who doesn't want any part of him, no matter how beautiful and sweet and _beautiful_ she might be.

"She's a bit… Sensitive," Robb says, swinging his practice sword up to meet Jon's, following the forms Jon knows well from his own training. "But she'll come round – she's always had dreams of going south, you see. She'll come around, don't worry."

"She wishes to go south so your parents marry her to _me?"_ Jon asks, astonished – while he's been flattered since the moment Father told him of the match, he'd also been surprised. Everyone had expected Southron marriages for Lord Stark's half-Southron children, had been surprised when it was announced that Robb would marry Alys Karstark (Rickard Karstark had been beside himself with glee at that, had lorded it over Maege Mormont and Wyman Manderly so blatantly that word of his idiocy had reached even Last Hearth). Frankly, when Father told Jon that he was to wed a Stark of Winterfell, Jon laughed and complimented Father on his fine jape.

But then Father frowned, and that was sign enough that it was no jape.

Jon knows that many a young man in the North will be jealous of him for his lovely bride – Theon Greyjoy not least among them, that much is clear from the way the Ironborn cur is glaring at him and staring moon-eyed up at Sansa and her little friend in the gallery above the yard – but Jon is beginning just now to wonder if this match is truly as _advantageous_ as Father and the uncles insist.

"Might do her good," Theon Greyjoy snorts, breaking Jon out of his thoughts and rolling his eyes and smirking, always smirking. "The cold up at Last Hearth might freeze some of that prissiness out of her."

Jon ignores Theon and Robb's argument about whether or not Sansa is prissy and turns instead to watch Bryn and Rogir fighting – Torrhen's disappeared off to the stables, like he always does when they're visiting anywhere – and starts thinking again.

He wishes his mother were here to take Sansa's measure, but she died six years past, when Jon was only the same age as Sansa is now, just three-and-ten. He misses her more than he'd ever let on, because he knows Father misses her even more, but he is certain that his mother'd give him some insight beyond _fine teats, decent strong hips, pretty face, lucky hair_ on his betrothed. Mother was a Norrey, strong and fierce and with a wicked sharp tongue, but she raised strong sons and kept a good, strong keep for Father, and she was a _good_ Lady Umber.

Last Hearth is the final standpoint of the Seven Kingdoms, whatever the Watch might claim – the Watch are a law unto themselves, really, and Jon's father has always warned him to be wary of the crows who come south for supplies, for prisoners, for whatever they think they need – and the Umbers are only as fierce as everyone claims them to be by necessity. The lady of Last Hearth must be as strong as her lord, if in a different way, and pretty Sansa flaming Stark with her Southron courtesies and practiced manners and soft hands is not what Jon ever thought of in a wife, no matter _how_ beautiful her huge blue eyes might be.

* * *

Sansa stabs at her stitching, neither caring that her stitches are as crooked as Arya's nor even really seeing them, because her mind is full of horrible visions of her future and she cannot think of anything else.

Will he force her to bear child after child until her body fails? When her bleeding came, Mother sent Septa Mordane away and spoke almost embarrassingly candidly about bleeding and bedding and birthing at great length, and about how Sansa is to care for her own health because maesters are not so knowledgeable about women's bodies as they claim to be. Mother had warned her how dangerous it could be for a woman to get with child before her body was healed from carrying and birthing a babe, but would Sansa's betrothed care about such things when he was her husband?

She considers his family – he has three younger brothers, but they are not all clustered close together like Mother said is dangerous. That might be a good sign, but Sansa cannot help but worry anyways – even if she is not forced to bear children close together, Smalljon and his brothers are all so _big,_ and she does not have what Mother calls "mothering hips," like Mother's own. Sansa has always liked being slender, being slight, basking in Jeyne's jealousy and that of other girls who visited, of girls and young ladies she met in the capital at the King's funeral, but now all she can think of is having to birth sons with that big frame and-

She cries out in surprise more than pain when her needle slips and sticks into the base of her thumb, deep enough to hurt and to draw blood, and Septa Mordane clucks and reprimands her and scolds her, and Sansa almost screams – she is a woman grown now, Mother and Father have made that _plenty_ clear in preparing to send her to the last outpost of civilisation, and she does not have to sit here and take a scolding from Septa _bloody_ Mordane.

She blushes to swear even in her own mind, but that does not stop her from standing up and flinging aside her sewing and storming from the room, ignoring Septa Mordane's calls for her to return and marching through the keep to her room, marching straight past Mother and Robb and even Bran, slamming the door shut behind her and lowering the bar to prevent anyone from disturbing her.

She hates them all, in this moment – Robb could fight for her, he is Father's heir, Father _listens_ to him, but he will not, because he too seems to think she should be happy about this match.

Sansa wonders if her family know her at all, thinks of Theon's jape that Arya will be the one to go south now that Sansa's been paired off, and buries her face in her pillow to muffle her screams (although she is not certain why she screams, but she thinks it is mostly anger).

* * *

"Hates me," Jon confirms absently when Father asks how he's getting along with Sansa. "She's locked herself in her room and won't come out, according to her brother, and Rogir says the one his age told him that she's been screaming and thrashing the place. She's about as happy about this match as Wyman Manderly was about the heir being promised to Alys Karstark."

"Oh, she'll come around," Father says, clapping him on the shoulder with a smile that, under all that beard, is probably encouraging. "You're a handsome lad, maidens like that."

"This maiden apparently had the same Southron ambitions as her grandfather," Jon huffs, folding his arms and sinking lower into his chair. "Look at her, Father – she's not made for Last Hearth. Six moons at home'll kill her!"

"She's a Stark, son," Father says firmly. "They're hardy stock – and besides, it's further from Riverrun to Winterfell than Winterfell to Last Heart, and Lady Stark made the change easy enough."

"Lady Stark is a good lot more sensible than her daughter."

"And you think she was so sensible at three-and-ten? Don't be too hard on the lass, lad, she's only just heard she's promised to you, and if she _does_ have her grandfather's ambitions, well, the thought of heading further north'll take a bit of getting used to, won't it?"

* * *

"Sansa, open this door right this minute, or I will have it removed from its hinges."

Sansa has half a mind to let Mother do just that, just to see if she will carry through with her threat, but instead clambers unsteadily to her feet – her lower legs are numb and fuzzy, her ankles feeling oddly bendy from being curled under her for so long – and moves the bar, opens the door, and stumbles back across the room to sit by her bed without greeting Mother.

"You are behaving appallingly," Mother says sharply, closing the door behind her with a firm thud that Sansa knows well enough from chastisements every time she and Arya fought before now. "Septa Mordane-"

"Septa Mordane will remain here at Winterfell when I am sent away," Sansa says, knowing how petulant she sounds and not caring. Arya is always petulant while Sansa is sweet, but Arya is not being sent to hell without a care for what she truly wants, what she _needs –_ because Sansa is thoroughly convinced that she _needs_ to go south, that she _needs_ sunshine and music and laughter and all the other things she knows she will not find in Last Hearth. "It is best that I _distance myself_ from everyone I am leaving behind."

"Sansa _Stark,"_ Mother snaps, and Sansa looks up, pouting and scowling and not caring at all, because Mother and Father gave her no warning at all that she was being consigned to this fate. _Maybe they will write a song about me,_ she thinks bitterly, _the daughter of Winterfell who faded away in the wastes of Last Hearth._ "You are going to clean up this room, and then you are going to fix your appearance so that you are suitably presentable-"

"What does it matter how I look? I doubt they care a bit up in the wilds!"

"House Umber," Mother says, voice tight and icy cold, and Sansa wonders if she has perhaps overstepped slightly, "is old and ancient, strong allies of House Stark and staunch guardians of the North – it is an honour to marry the man who will be their lord. You would do well to remember that."

"I could have married the King," she says, looking down into her lap to hide the tears that flood her eyes. "I heard Father talking to Queen Cersei, I heard him-"

"No," Mother says firmly. "I could have married your uncle Brandon, but that was not to be. Lord Jon is a good man, Sansa, for all that he is not a knight or as pretty as you might like. I did not much fancy your father when we wed, but I love him fiercely now, as well you know. Love is not an instantaneous thing – it builds, child. Now you will clear your room, and fix your appearance, and then you will apologise to Septa Mordane before preparing for dinner. You have sulked _quite_ enough, my girl."

* * *

Septa Mordane accepts Sansa's apology with a superior little smile that makes Sansa want to clench her fists and stamp her foot as Arya might, but instead she bows her head as though she actually feels some sort of contrition – instead, all she feels is that same twisting, resentful anger that bubbled over this afternoon, that drove her to throw her boot so hard at her dressing mirror that there's now a crack that runs around the rim from the lower corner almost to the middle of the top.

Father comes to escort her for dinner once she has bathed and dressed and braided her hair – Jeyne thinks _Lord Jon_ likes Sansa's hair, thinks he was admiring it last night, so she purposefully twisted it back and up and away, hiding it from him, depriving him of whatever little pleasures she can.

"I have a gift for you," Father says, and Sansa is almost reluctant to accept it because her last surprise from Father came in the form of Jon bloody Umber (she blushes at the thought, but swearing is oddly liberating, even if only in her head), so she thinks her suspicion is fair.

Father does not say a word about the crack in her mirror when he guides her to sit at her dressing table, but she knows that he is unhappy because of it by the way he purses his mouth and the way his brow creases just slightly.

He sets a wooden box, about the size of the palm of her hand, on the table before her.

"This belonged to your grandmother," he says quietly. "She died when I was young and I do not remember her as well as I would like, but I do remember enough of her to know that she would have been very proud of all of you – she would have wanted you to have this."

It is a necklace, narrow silver links and a heavy moonstone pendant that will sit right in the dip of Sansa's collarbones.

"It will suit you, I think," he says as he takes it from the box to set it around her neck. "Your mother has never worn any of your grandmother's pieces because they do not suit her, but-"

"If they do not suit Mother, they should not suit me," Sansa points out, slightly confused, but then Father smiles.

"You are of the North, sweetling," he says gently, clasping the chain around her neck and pressing a kiss to her hair. "For all that you look like your Mother, you are two very different people."

Sansa cannot help but think that the necklace weighs like an exquisite collar, that her duty to her family is the leash that will keep her bound here in the North until Lord Jon Umber the younger relieves her of it like the giant on his sigil, only to replace it with chains of his own.

* * *

Sansa pointedly makes conversation with everyone except Jon at dinner that night, and he grits his teeth and accepts the insult hidden by her courtesy to everyone else because Father would not want him to make a scene. She is only just three-and-ten, and if she wishes to behave as a child of seven or eight, well, that's her business and Jon will not interfere, because he has done nothing wrong and if she wishes to blame him for her father's choices, he'll not stop her.

 _She's a brat_ he decides, watching her laugh brightly at something Lord Robb says. _A spoiled brat who's not been properly taught to do what's expected of her._

And she is, that becomes ever clearer over the next few days – the way she speaks to her sister, the petulant cast of her mouth whenever he greets her if they meet, the way she sulks whenever her mother speaks with her, it all adds up to _brat_ in Jon's mind, and when he hears her snapping meanly at the steward's girl who he assumed was her friend over some tease or other, he adds _bitch_ to his picture of Sansa flaming Stark.

Five nights into their stay at Winterfell, Father and Lord Stark begin sharing stories of war and other adventures in the south, and there's such wistful longing on Sansa's pretty face that Jon almost feels bad for her that she will not have a chance to enjoy the things she so obviously wants. Almost only, though, because her sister says something about wishing to stay in the North, _like Sansa,_ and the most horrible bitterness twists Sansa's mouth that Jon is reminded sharply of Barbrey Dustin, who snipes and snarls at everyone and who apparently hates her lot.

It never occurred to Jon that Sansa might actually _hate_ him, for all that he told Father she does, and now that it has, he wishes it hadn't – she might be a bratty little bitch, but while he's not overly taken with her at the moment he had assumed that she would… Well, that she would grow out of that! But if she comes to _hate_ him, she might well end up like Barbrey Dustin, and while Lady Dustin is a handsome woman she doesn't have much else that would recommend her to Jon's tastes, and the idea of being married to a woman of her sort is not a particularly pleasant one.

 _Right then,_ he thinks, watching her smile and giggle with her brothers across the table, a real smile that she never deigns to give to him, _I'll prove to her that I'm just as worthy of her perfect bloody hand as any of her precious knights and lordlings from the south._

The only thing is, Jon's never had to court a woman before – while they wouldn't just fall into his arms, it's never taken more than a smile and a jape before they were willing, and he somehow doesn't think that he needs Sansa to be _willing_ (Lord Stark would have his head, betrothed or not, if he were ever to take advantage of Sansa's _willing)_.

He resolves to speak with Torrhen on the morrow – Torrhen enjoys chasing unattainable girls (or married serving women, the rogue), so surely he will have some sort of tricks Jon can use to prevent his wife-to-be from despising him as surely as she does now in the future.

He wonders if Torrhen knows how to convince a woman to wear her hair a particular way. Pleasant though the display of Sansa's pale neck is, Jon would rather have the fall of her hair catching the light across the table from him.

* * *

When Sansa's maid wakes her in the morning, she also leaves a little bundle of deep red wildflowers like the sort that grow deep in the godswood on her nightstand.

"What…?"

"From your Lord Jon, milady," the girl says with a grin. "He said to tell you they reminded him of your hair."

Sansa feels foolish for being annoyed that her plan to deprive him of her hair didn't work as she hoped, but she _is_ annoyed, and feeling so sours her mood even further.

"Please send my thanks to Lord Jon," she forces herself to say, "both for the lovely flowers and the lovely compliment."

She expects that to be the end of it – part of her can't help but assume that the flowers are meant as an insult, somehow, although she cannot figure out how, to repay her for her own rudeness at dinner – but it is not. More flowers arrive before dinner, before bed, the next morning, three times a day for the next four days, different flowers with a different compliment each time, and she becomes more and more frustrated with each new delivery, trying to uncover the jape, the insult, the _meaning_ , but even when she questions Jon bloody Umber directly, there is nothing more than a smile and a glint in his dark eyes to suggest that the gesture might be anything other than sincere.

In _infuriates_ her, but if he is going to mock her by making a show of wooing her, she will retaliate in kind – and she does. She goes out of her way to ensure that her hair is shown to its best advantage, tying it up in rags at night to bring out the curl, combing it only with her good silver comb to make it shine, using the special oil Mother's old maid had given her when they visited at Riverrun on the way home from King's Landing to make it gleam and look twice as soft as it is. She wears it in a tumble of curls over her shoulder, tied in place with a ribbon the same blue as her eyes, or gathered with her silver clasp so it spills down her back and swishes as she moves.

And it is not just her hair that she uses to her advantage – she has Mari tie her stays just a little tighter, tugs the neck of her gown just a shade lower, makes certain to lean just so when she is sitting opposite Jon bloody Umber at table, presses closer than proper when he dances her around the hall, a challenge in his damnable dark eyes and the set of his jaw under his beard (which seems neater than it did when he arrived and ruined her life, but mayhaps she has just become used to his fuzzy tangle).

* * *

Jon isn't certain that he's made any headway with Sansa flaming Stark by the time he and his family are due to leave Winterfell, because she's so impossible to puzzle out. She smiles and sighs and makes pretty noises to match her pretty face and her damnable hair, and all the while there's a special curl to her pretty pink mouth that's all contempt and all for him.

She didn't take well to his courting – the flowers had been meant as a tease, at first, but she'd been so sour about them under her courtesies that Jon had decided to continue them, just to spite her, which had only prompted her to do all those things with her hair.

He is going to kill whichever of his brothers it is that let someone know that he likes Sansa's bloody hair – but then, what man wouldn't? For all Jon knows, she's been using that mass of absurd red curls to charm any number of men since she flowered, for all he knows-

Well, no, he knows that even if that _is_ the case, it would have gone no farther because Sansa is a Stark of Winterfell, even if she doesn't act it in some ways, and she would not allow herself to be ruined.

That is how he _knows_ Theon Greyjoy's attentions are unwanted when he comes across the hostage cornering Sansa outside the great hall on his way back from the privy during their parting feast.

"My lady," he says, frowning just slightly because, while he knows the rumours about his House, he also knows that they're nonsense – the First Night was long since done away with, unless one of the uncles was partaking on the sly, and no Umber would force a woman (although Whoresbane might force a lad, but Jon prefers not to consider that) no matter what the likes of the Manderlys say – so he thinks he's well justified in his anger because, no matter what his personal feelings towards Sansa at present, or hers towards him, he does have a certain duty regarding her safety and Theon Greyjoy is endangering that safety. "Are you well?"

There's defiance in the tight set of her jaw, but then Greyjoy turns, fingers still biting visibly into Sansa's arm just under her elbow, and the defiance disappears.

"Just making sure she's ready for you, Umber," Greyjoy sneers, and Jon grits his teeth, reaches over, and removes Greyjoy's hand from Sansa's skin.

"My lady has no need of _your_ assistance in anything, Lord Theon," he says firmly, straightening up to his full height and putting it to his advantage in looming over the shit that dared lay a hand on what is _Jon's._ "You may be on your way."

Greyjoy is drunk, but not drunk enough to think he might win any fight against a man Jon's size, so he meanders back to the great hall, grumbling audibly the whole way.

Jon watches him leave, and then – only when he is certain that Greyjoy is gone, when the uncomfortable realisation that he is alone with Sansa dawns – turns to face Sansa.

"I do not need you," she says sharply, rubbing her arm where Greyjoy was holding onto her. "I do not _want_ you."

He ignores her protests and rolls up her sleeve to see if Greyjoy did any harm – the skin is a little red, but that's as much because she's so pale that every touch marks her as because she's hurt – and when he raises his eyes to hers, he finds not defiance or fear or anger or contempt there, but rather something that looks a damn sight like curiosity.

"I'm not a knight," he says bluntly. "I never will be. I have no desire to become one, if you hope that you might convince me otherwise – and I've no interest in riding in tourneys or wearing fancy clothes, neither. I'm me and you're you and we're stuck with one another, so we may as well get used to the idea and stop mocking each other."

He bows slightly before taking his leave, leaving her there against the wall and returning to his place at Father's side without mentioning the little incident in the hallway to anyone.

He takes his leave of his betrothed in the morning as though nothing has happened, and though he may be imagining it, he does not think she is quite as sharp with him as she was before.

* * *

Moons turn, and Sansa has far too much time to think.

Mostly, of course, she thinks about Jon _bloody_ Umber, about that last night when he'd jumped so ably to the defence of her honour from Theon, about the gentleness of his massive hands on her arm. She hasn't told anyone about that, not even Mother, not even _Jeyne,_ but she thinks about it constantly, thinks about _him_ constantly.

He is to be her husband, then – she has given up on trying to escape that, because even when Ser Andrew Estermont came from Storm's End by way of White Harbour with ill news from Lord Renly (Sansa does not know what that news was, knows that it was ill only because Father was in such a foul mood for days after Ser Andrew's visit) and offers of marriages for Sansa and Arya and even for Bran, Father was firm in his decision to wed her to the Smalljon. There is no getting away from it, so Sansa has decided that she will resign herself to her fate and accept it a little more gracefully than she has until now.

Still. Saying that she will be graceful about it is much easier than actually _being_ graceful about it, as Sansa discovers when Arya suddenly flowers and is suddenly the subject of a match.

A match in the Riverlands, in Mother's home. In the _south._

* * *

Jon has always liked Harry Karstark, for all that Harry's brothers annoy him with how bloody-mindedly arrogant they can be, so he doesn't much mind Harry's questions and teasing about Sansa flaming Stark, really.

"Prettiest girl in the North aside from Wylla Manderly, Jon," Harry grunts as their practice swords meet. "I'll be damned if I can see why you're so put out-"

"I'm not _put out_ ," Jon growls in return, shifting his grip on his shield and tilting his neck to the left until it cracks. "But I'd rather she were less pretty and more personable than as pretty as she is and as prissy with it."

Harry roars with laughter, and Jon can't help but laugh with him – he's glad Harry's come to visit, if only for the relief from Torrhen's tales of conquest and Rogir and Bryn's constant bickering and the uncles' _damned_ japes about Sansa's fine figure, which make Jon as indignantly angry as the sight of the Greyjoy hostage pinning Sansa by the wall had, which make Jon feel oddly guilty about the mornings he wakes up hard after dreams full of red hair.

Harry's hopeless adoration of the younger Manderly sister is a source of entertainment all of its own, of course, and Jon can't help but be jealous that Harry gets to be mad about a girl who is witty and clever and _nice,_ even if the chances of them ever marrying are nil considering old fat Wyman's ambition, when Jon has Sansa _flaming_ Stark to worry about.

"I'm being serious, Harry," he insists once they've stopped laughing. "She minces and simpers about the place and all the while everyone thinks she's sweeter than those lemon cakes she's so fond of, when really she can't wait to find some excuse or other to disappear off to the south just because she thinks it'll be as grand as all her stories and songs!"

"Figured that out all yourself, did you?"

"I listen," Jon says, leaning the point of his sword into the ground. "Gods, Harry, she's – how Lord Stark thought _that_ girl was right for Lady of Last Hearth I'll never know. More delicate than the bloody winter roses she's so fond of, that one."

"I hear you were fond of giving her flowers," Harry says with a grin. "Not winter roses-"

"Flaming wildflowers I picked in the godswood, because she spent half her time in that little sept of theirs and I wanted a reaction – anything but flaming _manners!"_

Harry levels him with a look that's far too smug for Jon's taste, and then grins afresh.

"You _like_ her," he crows, and then he laughs again. "Gods be good, Jon, you wouldn't care half so much if you didn't! You _like_ your little wolf bitch!"

* * *

A year and a half passes, and suddenly Sansa is to be wed within six moons, having spent a grand total of nine weeks in the company of her betrothed. The trip to Last Hearth had been disastrous-

" _You want me," he gasped against her mouth, his hands big and warm and careful and firm on her hip, cradling the back of her head, "You wouldn't have come here with me if you hated me as much as you think you do, you know it as well as I do," and his mouth tastes of hot cider_

 _-_ but at least herself and Smalljon have reached an… An agreement, of sorts. She will be more civil, he will mock her less, and they might somehow manage not to despise one another entirely if they do that.

Still, Sansa cannot deny that she is jealous that Arya is still going south (although Cley Cerwyn has been making advances, and Arya has been receptive if only because he is Northern, so…) but even Sansa cannot possibly be jealous of the offers for Arya's hand coming from the _Twins_ , she supposes, and she returns to her sewing once Arya has flounced off at Mother's side, her jaw already set in a way that has come to mean _no._

"It shall not be long before you go to Last Hearth, Lady Sansa," Septa Mordane says, sounding as satisfied as if she had arranged Sansa's match with Jon bloody Umber herself.

"And you will have the pleasure of my sister's company without mine to sour it," Sansa says sweetly, smiling as wickedly as she knows how. "How lovely for you."

"Now, Sansa-"

"Well, everyone is so eager to have me out of Winterfell that surely you must be looking _forward_ to enjoying my sister's company, that you must be looking forward to being _rid_ of me-"

"That is quite enough, Sansa," and Father is standing at the door, arms folded and jaw set sharply, and she feels ashamed. "I would have you walk with me, daughter."

So she sets aside her sewing (Alys, Robb's wife now and just starting to swell with child, looking more at home in Winterfell than Sansa ever has with her dark hair and dark eyes, smiles encouragingly as Sansa passes her) and takes Father's arm and lets him lead her to the godswood (so different from the godswood at Last Hearth, where she will be married, unmade a Stark and remade an Umber) where he sits by the hot pool and motions for her to join him.

"I thought that you had accepted this betrothal," Father says quietly, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking into the deep water. "Your mother and I thought-"

Sansa hardly hears a word he says, she's so ashamed of her conduct – it is one thing to bemoan her future in the privacy of her own mind, but it is quite another to be so obviously unhappy that Father feels as though he has failed in his duty to her, somehow, because she hates few things more than upsetting Mother and Father – and she drops to her knees before him rather than sitting at his side.

"I'm sorry," she pleads, "I did not mean it, Father, I swear it, I did not-"

He takes her face in his hands and looks at her – truly looks at her, and makes her feel very young in doing so – and then sighs.

"You are very like your aunt Lyanna," he says, and smiles when she begins to protest. "Arya might have her look and her wildness, but you have her love of stories, her dreams of some grand life. Lyanna had misgivings about marrying Robert Baratheon, much as you do about marrying Jon Umber. Hers were not unfounded."

The _but yours are_ goes unsaid, but it shames Sansa all the same.

* * *

Preparations for Jon's wedding are already underway, but he's made a point of not involving himself – Harry's been visiting for an age now, so at least Jon has company besides his sneering little shits of brothers, but Harry becomes unbearable when he notices the way Jon's eyes flicker over east towards the godswood all of the time.

Because Harry is the only one who knows that Jon has kissed Sansa on that pretty prissy pink mouth of hers. Harry doesn't know that Jon now knows what the firm curve of Sansa's arse feels like through her skirts, or that he's smelled the skin behind her ear or that he can't sleep at night he wants her so much, or that none of the serving girls who look at him with inviting eyes rouse his interest in the slightest except that one tall girl with red hair (well, maybe Harry knows that, because he and Torrhen are sleeping their way through the staff and before Sansa, Jon might have been inclined to join their fun), but even she isn't enough to really tempt him because her eyes are dark and her skin is ruddy and weathered, not pale and soft and freckled just slightly across the bridge of her nose…

Of course, it's not the physical want that makes him melancholy – it's the cold, hard manner of their agreement that leaves him worried, worried about what sort of life they'll have together.

 _I will decide when we have children,_ she said, and while he supposes that's only fair it also worries him a little – what if she decides she doesn't want to bear his children? He could almost imagine it of her, just to spite him for not being the knight she wants. _I will need leave to visit my mother at Winterfell often after we wed,_ and it's near four weeks journey to Winterfell from home, and if Sansa is to visit "often," well, Jon doesn't think he'll see her all that much.

He can't decide if he minds or not. No matter how nice it had been to kiss her, he knows that it takes more than a good fuck to make a marriage work. He just can't see that he and Sansa will ever have the easy companionship he remembers between Mother and Father, and he is surprised by the depth of his disappointment because of that.

 _I will try to be a good wife,_ she said, and Jon will try to be a good husband, but he doesn't know if it'll be enough. He doesn't think she hates him anymore, but _not hating_ is not the best of foundations for a marriage, surely?

* * *

As Sansa is fitted for her wedding dress, she forces herself not to think that it will be wasted on House Umber and Last Hearth as it would not be in the south, but instead on what she _knows_ of her husband-to-be.

He is massive, apparently a ferocious warrior, as proven against the wildling bands that have managed to creep past the Wall in ever increasing numbers as winter has deepened, but capable of great gentleness despite his enormous strength. He has kind eyes, but a rough tongue and rougher manners, much of the time, although she knows he does make an effort to gentle himself for her-

Oh. Does he think she needs to be handled gently? Well, if she is being forced into staying in the North then she will prove that she is _just_ as much a Stark as her brothers and Arya. She does not _need_ to be handled gently, and she will tell Jon bloody Umber as much when next she sees him.

He laughs easily, although not with her. She must concede that that may, in part, be her own fault, because she spends as much time provoking him as he spends teasing her, so there is not much time for laughter. Still, he has a nice smile – open and friendly and bright, his teeth straight and white, for which she is thankful.

He'd smiled at her differently, that morning in the godswood at Last Hearth, after he'd kissed the breath from her lungs (she'd never been kissed like that before, had been shocked by his tongue in her mouth even though she'd quickly grown to like it). His smile had been hot and full of a promise she didn't entirely understand, then.

He has very thick hair, and he has outright told her that he has no intention of trimming his beard, despite her very pointed hints that she would like that one concession from him. He cares little for his appearance, but he does like to be clean and always smells pleasantly of soap except when he is fresh from the training yard.

He likes dogs, and Lady quite likes him, but he has little time for any other animals aside from his horse, an enormous chestnut stallion that is precisely the right size for him, even though any other man sitting astride it would look like they were trying to ride a plough horse.

When they were at Last Hearth, Sansa dreamt as Lady and prowled the keep in the darkest part of the night, only to hear someone call out Sansa's name as she passed Jon's room.

He mocks her mercilessly, but never truly maliciously – it is more as if he wants her simply to react than to provoke some specific reaction, which pricks her temper so much that she always _does_ react, because she resents being treated as a game for his amusement.

Since that night just after their betrothal, he has saved her from Theon's advances twice and from other men's three times, including once from his great-uncle. He is not a knight, no, but he is an honourable man, despite her initial misgivings.

She does not know if she will ever love him. She does not think so, at present – they are too different. She thinks that he will do his best to make her comfortable, though, and she supposes that is something.

* * *

The wedding is frighteningly close, and suddenly Father is ushering Jon into his solar and bringing out an old brass-bound chest and presenting Jon with the same cloak that he draped Mother in all those years again.

"We might not have a pretty sigil for your little wolf to sew into fancies and favours," Father says sternly, because someone (Bryn, it was probably Bryn, he has the loosest tongue north of Dorne) made it known that Sansa was less than enthused about the prospect of marrying away from knights and tourneys and things, "but we're strong as that ruddy giant, and you're as good a lad as there is in Westeros, so don't you let her convince you you're not good enough for her because your name is Jon Umber and not whoever-it-is that sister of hers is to wed in the Riverlands."

A match hasn't been made for Sansa's sister yet, but Jon doesn't say anything – instead, he shakes out the cloak and holds it up, pleased that it looks as if it should be just the right length for Sansa. He won't have her pouting and sulking over something as small as her cloak being too long on their wedding day, not when she'll probably have a thousand other things to sulk about.

"You're as equal as she's like to find unless she married a Lannister or a Martell or a Tyrell," Father says, dangerous pride sharp in his eyes. "And don't you forget that."

* * *

The ride to Last Hearth is more arduous than it was last time because the snows are thicker and deeper, but Sansa has resolved not to complain because it makes Father proud to see her being strong, like Mother.

She misses Robb on the journey, but of course he had to stay at Winterfell – Alys is due in the birthing bed any day, may already have birthed her and Robb's babe, and Robb could hardly abandon his wife just to attend his sister's wedding.

"You will be a fine lady, sweetling," Mother says when they make camp for the last time before they are due to reach Last Hearth. "You will see, you will grow into your role."

There are no women of House Umber still at Last Hearth, Sansa knows, no sept and no family and friends or anything familiar at all, and she is already lonely for Winterfell – but instead of showing that, she forces herself to smile, smiles harder when Mother touches her face, and does not allow herself to weep into her pillow when she and Arya curl close under the furs to sleep.

* * *

She stumbles slightly when she steps down from her saddle, and Jon lunges forward without thinking to catch her lest she fall – japes and teases and mockery ring out from all sides, and Jon knows he'll pay for it even more later, between Torrhen and Harry and Dacey and Aly Mormont and Cley Cerwyn and the rest of them, but for the moment there are only wide blue eyes and parted lips looking up at him from under loosened fiery red braids.

"My lady," he says, hoping his voice does not sound as strained as he is with the effort of pushing aside the sudden desire to kiss Sansa – that part of their marriage, he knows, will not be a problem, but he knows that that is easy for most anyways, so he does not much care about it at the moment – "welcome to Last Hearth."

"Thank you, my lord," she breathes, cheeks a pretty pink before she ducks her head. "I am glad to be here."

He can feel how badly she's shaking – the wrong sort of shake for it to be the cold – and knows her words to be a lie, but he offers her his arm and escorts her inside regardless.

"I will not allow any harm to come to you," he says. "I know – I know my family have a reputation around weddings, around- around brides, but it is a lie, I swear it."

She shakes a little less after that.

* * *

The morning of her wedding is blindingly sunny, the glare off the snow layered thick on the ground painful to behold, but Sansa is thankful – the sunshine will hopefully glare off her white dress, too, will distract from how nervous she is now that the day is finally here.

Mother styles Sansa's hair herself – braided away from her face but loose down her back, the perfect complement to her white gown, showing her off as the maiden bride she is – and Father comes to hang his mother's necklace around her neck, to drape her in Stark white with a grey direwolf snarling across her back.

She wishes she were as fierce as that wolf, as her brothers and Arya and Mother and Father. She wishes she were not afraid.

* * *

Jon ignores every single word old Maester Fredel says as he wraps Jon's bloody hand with treated linens to prevent the split skin on his knuckles from festering.

"Lady Sansa won't be pleased about this," Torrhen teases as they make their way to the godswood.

"Bugger that," Jon growls, scratching at his beard – despite all his insistences, he trimmed the damn thing the way Sansa had hinted she'd prefer for the wedding, and his face feels cold and bare with it so short – and striding forward, feeling completely overdressed and too groomed and just not at all himself, but he supposes Sansa might appreciate the effort. He hopes she will. "I was defending her honour."

Brandon Tallhart had spoken more than just out of turn when he'd been mouthing about how much he was looking forward to the bedding – Jon might have borne that had Brandon not then turned around and japed about the likelihood of Sansa's being a maiden being lessened by the Greyjoy cur being at Winterfell, but Brandon did and Jon thinks a broken nose is a small punishment for daring impugn a Stark of Winterfell's honour.

"Aye, well, not as if it makes much difference either way," Harry says with a shrug, clapping Jon on the back. "So long as she's not carrying a squid, surely you won't mind."

Only the sting of Jon's knuckles when his fist clenches stops him from breaking Harry's jaw.

* * *

Jon's eyes go wide when she walks into sight, but the first thing Sansa really notices is not how stunned he looks.

"You trimmed your beard," she whispers when Father puts her hand in Jon's. "You said you wouldn't!"

"You said you wouldn't leave your hair down," he hisses back, turning her to face the heart tree so they may say their vows – and they do, although Sansa hardly hear a word that either of them says she's so thrown by the fair colour of Jon's beard now that it's so short to his jaw, and suddenly Father is removing her maiden's cloak and Jon is sweeping her marriage cloak around her shoulders, and she is Lady Sansa Umber now, a woman wed.

She slips her hand into Jon's elbow and leans on him as he guides her from the godswood and back into the keep, to the great hall where their wedding feast will be laid on, and when they get there-

When they get there, he hands her down into her seat, and then pours a cup of iced honey milk for her.

"Drink it," he says quietly. "To settle your stomach – you look as if you might vomit any moment."

She sips it gratefully, but she cannot deny that she is surprised when he takes a cup of the same thing – and he frowns when he notices her staring.

"We are to lead the dancing," he points out, "and I am not a good dancer when drunk."

He is a better dancer now than she remembers, but still not a good dancer, even sober, and she shrieks in surprise when he hooks an arm around her waist and lifts her to stand on the toes of his boots as he spins her easily around the floor.

"Much better," he laughs, and she cannot help but laugh with him, because it is a relief that this is easy when so much of the time they spend together is so _difficult._

 _He is a good man,_ she tells herself, feeling a little guilty that even as recently as last week she was dreaming of sunshine and tourneys. _I can make my family proud. I will make my family proud._

* * *

Jon wants to pummel all three of his brothers, all three Karstarks, both Tallharts and Cley Cerwyn as well as his uncles and every other man who gropes at Sansa like she's horseflesh or a whore when the cry goes up for the bedding, but he has his own hands full keeping Dacey and Aly in particular away from his cock, and for all that they're laughing and it's a jape he'd really rather not have every woman in the North copping a feel of his cock and his balls-

He barely avoids catching Aly's hand when he slams the door of his bedchamber, and he leans heavily against it with one hand while he sets the bar in place with the other before turning to face Sansa.

She's brushing out her hair, and his cock jumps she's so beautiful, sitting there naked on the edge of his bed. She also looks very small and very young, and not just because his bed is longer than most.

He can't help but grin when he notices that she's staring at him through her hair.

"Is the view to your liking, my lady?" he teases, running a hand through his own hair and grinning wider when she blushes. "I find my own view quite lovely."

"Get it done with," she says sharply, setting aside the brush and swinging her legs up onto the bed. "It has been a long day, and I would like to sleep."

But her arms are wrapped tight around her legs, which she's drawn up to her chest, and she's biting her lip and looks… Afraid? But Sansa flaming Stark is afraid of nothing!

"Well?" she snaps, looking down at her toes where they're curled into the furs. "What are you waiting for? There has to be blood-"

"No, there hasn't," Jon says mildly, pouring two cups of wine and handing one to her before sitting down beside her. "Not all women bleed when-"

"Please," she whispers. "Just- make it quick?"

"Sansa, I have no intention of making it _quick,"_ he says in surprise. "You won't enjoy it at all that way, and while you may find me underwhelming in other regards, I can assure you that I am _far_ better at this than any of your pretty Southron knights."

She looks up at that, jaw hard and tight, but at least that odd fear seems to have passed.

"Prove it, then," she challenges, "show me that I am not lacking for being forced to wed into this wasteland instead of to the south-"

And their wine is on the nightstand and she's spread out underneath him, all that hair fanning around her, and she gasps when he kisses her and twists her fingers into his hair.

"We might get this bit right, at least," he says against her neck, learning the shape of her jaw with the tip of his tongue. "You'll not hate having me in your bed, even if you hate me and hate that your bed is at Last Hearth and not somewhere in the Crownlands."

* * *

 _I don't hate you_ she wants to say, but her breath is caught in her throat and all she can do is clutch at his hair with one hand and his massive shoulder with the other, because he's right – they may be terrible at everything else together, but this at least seems to be working well enough.


End file.
